Disclaimer: I do not own Hamlet. Would you really believe me if I said I did?

Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark, the son of the late King, and nephew to the present one, the Lord of Wit and Words and Musings, and of Questionable Morals and Madness, was pacing again.

Horatio knew he was pacing because he could hear the powdered footfalls padding up and down the hallway, cut short every so often by the soft shriek of a twisting shoe on the marble floor to propel its wearer into another lap. Hidden behind one of the numerous doors that lined the corridor, Horatio too felt like pacing, but refrained, fearing that if he moved, he would be discovered at once; the Prince of Denmark had very sharp ears.

And an even sharper tongue, Horatio mused silently, which, if put to a grindstone, would surely slice it in twain...smooth as the sun doth unzip the night sky each dawn to begin painting.

Unlike the others, and unlike what any passersby were wont to think, Horatio was not spying on Hamlet. Actually, he himself was quite unsure as to what he was doing at the moment, and what his reasons were for doing it. He supposed his new habit of following Hamlet (usually completely undetected) was simply out of concern for his dear friend, who was most assuredly still out there, alone, unconscious of the trench he was no doubt digging in the floor from the back-and-forth worrying of his feet.

How Horatio longed to comfort his Prince, his lord, his friend…but he was no master of language, no great empathizer. He could listen, and would, and did, but to reach out and speak the words that would untwist a knotted heart and soul? That was beyond him, and up to another.

Before Horatio's mind could try to come up with someone else who could possibly be that 'other', he was interrupted by the dawning realization of the odd silence out in the hall. The pacing had ceased. Straining to hear something to clue him in on the whereabouts and doings of Hamlet on the other side of the door, Horatio's brain babbled wildly about being found out, that the Prince could not have heard a rustling or any such movement as he had made none, so he must have heard Horatio's thoughts, could read his mind, knew he was there.

One shaking hand was already on the door handle, ready to reveal the rest of him in a frank apologetic confession, when two spoken words on the far side caused his immediate halt. Two, hushed, breathy words spoken by a troubled mind to a troubled mind, which curled under the crack between door and floor and slid in through Horatio's palms, stealing through his veins like frozen acid, forcing numbness and causing him to still, as though it would hold him captive forever.

This was more likely than not, for more words followed the first two.

"To be…or not to be." A pause. The next was nearly inaudible as the whisper lessened even further to affirm, "That is the question." Hamlet's voice was, as always, somehow slightly aloof from the conventional tones. The certain aspect and reason for this danced mockingly, scant centimeters from the finger Horatio longed to put on it. Always scornfully polite, his voice had a whiteness, a sharpness to it, and yet also a grace, somehow a smooth, ebony quality thrown in, like a dash of some spice used to instantly make all things richer.

Horatio heard and recognized that voice the same as he always did, but this time, something was different. Interlaced within the harsh white and silken black was another color, this one a pale, breathless gray-blue. It wrenched at his insides, made him want to see the sky, gave him a gouging lust for free space with no one watching. It made him ache to show himself, to be heard, to open this door, seize the Prince, and make off with him, somewhere far from this diseased place and time.

Hamlet, unaware of the silent distress occurring behind the divide, continued: "Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them…?" There came next a heave of a sigh. Horatio cradled the sound to his breast, as if it could transfer his affection and fellow sorrow back to its maker. "To die…to sleep…no more…and by a sleep, to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to…oh, 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!" Hamlet's voice rose and cracked, in utter anguish and desperate frustration. It was kin to a sob, and Horatio mourned the inescapability of its utterance.

A few agonizing moments of silence, and then the Prince began again: "To die…to sleep. To sleep…? Perchance to dream." A noise like a scoff, and Hamlet's tone was suddenly tinged with disdain. "Ay, there's the rub. For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil? Must give us pause…there's the respect that makes calamity of so long life." And the disdain was gone, to be replaced by a peculiar wondering, quizzical tone: "For who would bear the whips and scorns of time…? The oppressors wrong, the proud man's contumely—" Hamlet cut himself off, and the next words were spoken with the bitterness and sorrow of a pain long concealed. "The pangs of despised love…" A long pause, much more lengthy than the last, until Hamlet seemed to shake himself and went on to say, "the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns that patient merit of the unworthy takes, when he, himself, might his quietus make…" There was the sudden clang of a dagger being sliced from its sheath, "with a bare bodkin…?"

Horatio closed his eyes and waited, ears roaring, his heart seeming to beat objects out of its way in its quest to see the truth, the outcome. A thousand snail seconds crept by until the blade announced it was returning to its former habitat, instead of whittling through the flesh and blood and bone of its handler. Allowing himself to relax slightly, Horatio stilled again, and listened as Hamlet posed questions to his empty hallway.

"Who would fardels bear, to grunt and sweat under a weary life? But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns…puzzles the will. And makes us rather, bear those ills we have, than fly to others that we know not of!"

And then, in a frighteningly firm whisper, "thus conscience doth make cowards of us all. And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought…and enterprises of great pitch and moment, with this regard, their currents turn awry…and lose the name of action!"

With that last, venomously hissed phrase, Horatio could bear the concealment no longer. He yanked the door inwards and charged out into the hall, just missing ramming the Prince to the ground. Only Hamlet's instinctive grasp of Horatio's shoulder kept Horatio halted and both steady. Horatio glanced over at the other's face just in time to see a strange calculation, a ticking of the hidden brain which then caused the lips to be drawn up into a smile, and the eyes to soften and narrow in delight at the sight of who was before him. Horatio wondered if Hamlet had always done this when confronting certain situations; judged the necessary expressions, then fabricated them in his mind before molding them onto his face.

For some reason, the consideration made him sadder.

He jumped when Hamlet chuckled, "What ho, Horatio, my good man! Where is the fire?"

"Fire, my lord?" Asked Horatio distractedly, a good deal flustered and out of breath, both from adrenaline and new and tender comprehension.

"Ay, the fire which quickens your heart, your mind, and most importantly, your steps! What manner of creature pursues you?" Hamlet studied Horatio's face with his darkly polished eyes, and waited for a response.

And Horatio, still very much puzzled and disturbed, and still no master of wit or words, collected himself, and replied, "One who hides in plain sight, my lord. Even when seen, it will not allow itself to be boxed in with a tidy definition. It refuses to be understood, or solved, by anyone, my lord. Even those who call it friend."

I love Hamlet. Oh, er, I mean, I adore Hamlet with every essence of ever fiber of every particle of my being, that lofty, beautifully brooding artist and wonder of a character...

And still nowhere near to being as poetic as Shakespeare, that genius of geniuses.

But yes, I love Hamlet. As a result, I have a great respect for it. I told myself that I would not attempt a Hamlet fanfic until college and life have taught me better eloquence (I dare to hope), but my muse and my poetry-weakened brain had other ideas. And this is the result. I really hope this wasn't a mockery of something so beautiful. I tried to do it justice, but I know I will never come close. And yet, I satisfied my craving, so I guess that's something. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, I hope nobody was offended, and I tell you I regret nothing.

"But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue."